“Where is she?”

Softpaw, a princely brown tabby, seasonably smug at age 30 in cat years, sensed there would be a disturbance by dawn. He smelt it in the midnight air. To ponder what this problem could be, he leapt up to his preferred windowsill. From sunrise to noon, the windowsill by the front door was showered with light, but now, between dusk and dawn, it was a good place to hear his person’s steps. He would hear her walking up the stone path. After the path turned the corner, he could see her at the door of their garden studio. 

It was a stripe past midnight, and Softpaw’s person was not home.

His green eyes shut and envisioned her as if to will her there.

Sarah Magill, the closing assistant manager of Laurel Hills Cinemaplexi, always came home to refresh the water and to add food even if she didn’t stay, even if she was deep into dating someone he could never purr over. Now really, how could he even condone her conduct? He knew it was ennobling to be social. He did more than what others refer to as being friendly to their indentured help, but to suffer happily his person’s temporary person seemed beyond generosity. He loathed the string of strange men making equally strange sounds, bad smells, and hazardous movements. Thank The Great Spirit they’ve all been temporary.

“She’s late,” he mewed aloud, eyes open. “It’s over halfway to dawn.”

In the darkness, he let his mind anticipate their day together.

It was usually midday when they had their family quality time, when Softpaw allowed a little of himself to rub off on her. They had been together for enough time to entwine their daily routines: sugary milk in cereal bowls placed on the floor, chicken from leftover burritos or tuna flakes from the odd sandwich, amusing sessions of her swatting at invisible insects as she practiced her aiki-do, hours of lap snuggling during VCR movies, and later, the warm crook of her arm while she took her nap. All these fine things passed before she would disappear again for a third of a day out.

Finally, her steps could be heard, and, soon, her shadow tumbled the lock. The door opened as if inhaling. He jumped from windowsill, to futon, to floor. From his position at her shoes, he looked up and saw that her eyes were watery, her face puffy and red. This was the disturbance he had anticipated.

She gently closed the door behind her. Softpaw hesitated: immediately demanding his late-nite morsels would be rude. So, considerately, he sat staring up at her leaning heavily on the shut door. Then she slid down the door’s length, covering her red face, and sat perfectly still. All of a sudden, as it was with her, she burst into tears.

Her noise was scary. He approached her, careful step over careful step. After placing his paws on her knees, he sniffed the salty perfume of her tears, then she revealed her face. She was quite beautiful, he thought, but unbalanced. He let out a muffled cry that sounded not unlike a request for food nor attention. The mew was to let her know that he had arrived and that was enough.

"Oh, Pawbaby, I feel so alone," Sarah said.

"Mewmf," responded Softpaw.

She picked him up and set him in her lap, a space she could create for him. Petting him always made her think out loud: "I’m just not going to let some guy treat me like a trophy just so I can keep him... I’m almost thirty. I have had five major relationships that have never lasted a year. Maybe I am defensive, but his asking me to go home and change my clothes before I meet his pals? Screw him. Maybe he was feeling a little inadequate since I am better at aiki-do than he is... There’s other guys... maybe a few good ones left. There’s the friend of Ally’s that she wants me to meet, says he is cool. Sometimes... I hate to wonder about this... I think no one will ever want me after I tell them I can’t have any children. Sure, they think it’s great for a while...”

“All this exposition,” said Softpaw, but she only heard another mew.

Her face leaned towards his, and he rubbed her chin with the corners of his mouth. A few of her dangling tears finally fell on his left ear. He couldn’t help but twitch it. He felt bad, even though he was enjoying how her chestnut hair veiled the rest of their apartment from his place in her lap. This moment would have been perfect if it weren't for his person’s tears. 

He kept repeating, “All you need is me,” but she only heard purring.

A little before midday, there was salmon for him at the table. Softpaw sat in the chair across from her as talked again about the last smelly man and what he had said in his defense about her changing her clothes. Softpaw was almost attentive. He didn’t say anything until he finished his strip of salmon. 

“I want more salmon,” he mewed.

“No, you already ate yours,” she replied, understanding him perfectly.

After their late breakfast, when she sat on the couch to tie her tennis shoes, Softpaw hopped into her lap. Soon he was dumped out of its soft warmth.

"I've got to go meet Ally now. You know your Auntie Ally. I’m going to whine to her about him so you don't feel like your the only one shouldering all my emotional baggage. You are just a kitty after all. I promise I’ll be home later to practice my aiki-do. I know it amuses you when I kick the corporal air."

"Mew," he agreed, following her to the door. He angled towards the crack to let her know he wanted to go outside.

"If you're going outside, you need to wear your collar."

He knew the procedure, and stood still while she put the choker on him. As soon as she cracked open the door, he slipped through, not once turning back. I need to think, he thought, half aware that he was already thinking. After a few strides of not coming up with anything, he decided to consult one of his pals.

The pal he decided to visit was the middle-aged she-beagle fenced in the yard adjacent to his garden studio. She was hyper for her age, a puppy at heart, but Softpaw enjoyed her company.

"Softpaw! Come play with me. We shall romp!"

"Can't play," said Softpaw positioning himself carefully, well out of range, on her person-high fence. He tried not to stare down at her too condescendingly. This was hard especially since she had her rump in the air, her chin and forearms pressed to the muddy ground which was all indented with her paw prints. 

"You can never play! You should play today! Dogs and cats can do magic when they romp together! They can do magical things! It’s true!"

"Actually," Softpaw chose his words careful, "I need some advice."

"Advice? I've got loads and loads of advice!" the dog said spinning.

"My person is depressed. Mating problems, I believe."

"Oh, my," said the beagle settling down a bit to take things more seriously. "Human females are miserable lots of the time. They can go into heat at anytime, as long as the right man comes along, or, I should say, when they think the right man has come along. Does she want babies?”

“I don’t think she can have them. She was inadvertently fixed.”

“Oh. I see. Well, does she often smell ready for mating?”

He replied rather defensively, “She smells best when she’s with me.”

“I don’t know how it is,” the beagle admitted, “but I do know my master, who’s always ready, brings them home, starts pawing them, licking them, and I just smell they are not ready for him, but he starts trying to hump them anyway. I don't like them at all. They wouldn’t know a good man if one bit them."

Softpaw thought about this a moment. An idea was forming in his head. "So, my person needs a man who she thinks is the right man?" 

"Finding Mr. Right is important to females. Do you watch daytime TV?"

"No, I watch serious independent films with my person, thank you."

“It’s nice you do things with your person you both enjoy doing.”

“If only she knew that I’m the only thing she will ever need in her life.”

"Well, you can't be with her now, so you should romp with me!"

Before he thought it through, he said: "I could see Coyote."

The mention of Coyote made the she-beagle step backwards as if to fight. She growled, "Don't mess with that trickster."

"It's the only way," said Softpaw and jumped off the fence to seek Coyote. The beagle barked, "hey, hey, hey," after Softpaw, but he wouldn’t hear any of it. He knew he had to move faster than the smog to outrun his second thoughts.

In the thick woods, Softpaw followed the scariest shadows he could find. These shadows would lead to Coyote. The deeper into the woods he traveled, the cooler the ground under his paws became. Soon he was at the darkest place, the place where if he took another step he would be traveling out of the woods. Softpaw sat as calmly as he could, his eyes staring into a world of shadows.

He shivered when he saw the bright yellow eyes of the Coyote.

"Green-eyes is here...seeking what all souls fear."

"Hello," Softpaw said as bravely as he possibly could. "Coyote?"

"Got a milk dish, got a fresh fish, got a unnatural wish?"

Softpaw could hardly look at Coyote’s eyes. Coyote’s eyes were like twin suns in a black sky. "I have a question, if you are not too busy."

"An answer for a might, a form to delight, a heart to respite..."

"Is it possible, respectable Coyote, in the course of all supernatural things, which of course you are privy to, for a cat to become a man?"

"Poison and the rat, thick nets and the bat, curiosity and the cat."

"Well, yes," said Softpaw, "I know you are busy and I was reluctant to take up your time with hypothetical questions, but I would like to know if a cat could be turned into a human ape, if a silly cat would want to stoop that low?”

"Wonder you can, but to truly understand, I will make you a man."

Well after dusk, Sarah was unlocking the studio door when she noticed, sleeping a few yards away on a lawn chair, Softpaw buck naked in his new form. When he saw that he had startled her, he stood upwith a start. 

"What are you doing here?!" she finally shouted.

Softpaw held up the collar that broke by design when his neck grew.

"What have you done with my cat!"

"I am your cat. It’s me, Softpaw."

“Look, I’ve been taking aiki-do for six years for a moment just like this.”

“I know, I’m your cat. I watch you practice every day.”

"If you don't tell me where my cat is, I'm calling the cops!”

“Don’t call the cops. It’s me, Softpaw. Can’t you tell it’s me?”

Even though no one could see him since their garden studio was secluded, her eyes still searched for someone else to help her deal with this naked man or, perhaps, at least, to reveal that this naked man as a joke.

“All I care about is my cat. Where is he?”

“I’m me,” said Softpaw, rolling his eyes in frustration. “Coyote did it.”

“You’re saying a coyote got my cat?”

It was now obvious to Softpaw. He would have to take another approach. After all, she was human and did not totally understand the ways of the world. A movie they had watched together came back to him. People transformed into something else had to prove they were themselves.

“Look,” he said and pointed to a barely noticeable nick out of his left ear. “The fight I had with that raccoon last summer... look at my eyes, they’re green.”

“If this is some practical joke, it is really not funny.”

“This is a practical joke.” Softpaw found himself lying like a human. How instinctual it is for human beings to lie when the truth is so unprofitable. “I’m the friend of Ally’s whom she wants you to meet. I was petting your cat... when he darted off and... got his collar hooked on a nail in the she-beagle’s fence, and I went after him and got all my clothes muddy in that beagle’s yard and took them off and right now I’m really, really cold.”

Sarah had managed to open the studio door while he rambled out his lie. When he stepped forward slowly, she hastily entered and locked the door shut. Through the window, he watched her grab the phone and punch out a number. She looked at him through the glass as she held the phone to her ear.

After a minute, she hung up the phone, then latched the door safety chain, and cracked the door. “Ally’s not home, so you better leave.”

“I’m cold. I did this all for you.”

Sarah scolded, “Man, you shouldn’t play jokes on people you don’t know. And I worry when he’s outside without his collar. Where are your clothes?”

Softpaw used his green eyes on her the best he could. “Unwearable.”

“I have a sense of humor but this isn’t fun... you have my cat’s eyes.”

“Can I come in? Sarah, I’m really getting cold.”

“I will give you a sheet you can keep,” she said, “but we will never work. I can tell right now. I mean you are cute, but you are way too deranged for me. I’m always telling Ally I want a stable, normal guy who wears clothes in public. Ally knows that I like guys that can be a little nutty, but this is way to far for me. I’m afraid your skills and experience don’t fit our current openings.”

“I thought I could just tell you.”

Sarah left him shivering at the chained door. Soon she brought back the sheet she hung over the window when the sun penetrated through the blinds. She also carried the broom with which she swept up his loose kitty litter.

“Drop the collar.”

Softpaw placed the collar on a stone path, and Sarah pushed the thin sheet through the crack. He wrapped the thin sheet around him like a toga, while she dragged the collar with the broom handle through the crack to inside the door.

“One last time: do you know where my cat is?”

He said, having lost all patience, “I’m your cat and I hate being a man.” 

“Never come back,” Sarah said sternly and slammed the door shut.

Softpaw sighed then walked over to the beagle’s fence and peeked over it. The beagle barked at him then suddenly stopped.

“It’s I,” he said. The dog cocked her head. “You were right about Coyote. He only appears to us when he knows we haven’t thought everything through. What a rash act I must now somehow reverse.”

The beagle barked once, agreeing, discernible worry in her voice.

In the thick woods again, it took more than human eyesight to see Coyote. Softpaw had heard that when human beings sought Coyote, they had to go to the darkest place in their souls. Growing colder, he came closer to the darkest place inside him. The fear that he’d never be a cat again made him feel utter despair. When he felt the worst he had ever felt in all of his 30 cat years, the bright yellow eyes appeared.

Upon seeing those eyes, Softpaw tried hard to control his anger and fear. It would be completely in character for Coyote to leave him in human ape form. He knew Coyote would hesitate to change him back, if he would even change him back at all. 

“I want to be a cat again,” he heard himself pleading. He added calmly, “Being a man was a uniquely disappointing experience.”

“Entered through a door, swept her off a floor, but women want more.”

Even though Softpaw was not thinking clearly, he still had his cat balance. It seemed that Coyote did not know what had occurred between Sarah and him. Coyote too generously assumed that Softpaw had been crafty enough to acquire some sort of clothes before he approached her for the first time.

“That is correct, Coyote,” he said, “I swept her off the floor, that is to say, charmed her into proverbial putty, and even got her into bed, but, suddenly, recalling the operation she had done to me, whereas I’m no longer able to mate, even for the fun of it, I could go no further and ran out on her like this.”

“You must have upset her, having almost met her, now I can get her.”

“Well...” he said thoughtfully, giving him time to design a workable plan. “She was already upset about her missing cat, the feline that was, of course, me.” He continued, with an inward smile because he was getting devilish at this lying, “and now she must be even more upset with my skipping out, but, I do believe, if you change me back as her beloved cat and brought me home, she’d be very, very happy and finish what we had begun.”

Coyote, in the form that Softpaw had previously occupied inside the toga, knocked once with his right hand. His left arm cradled the fuzziness of Softpaw. Sarah peeked through the window. She beamed her joy to see her Softpaw, then, a split second later, her coolness to see the form in the toga.

The door’s chain secured a cat-wide crack. “Pawbaby, inside right now!” He squirmed free, feet fell first, then he slipped through the crack like a draft.

Unfazed, Coyote said very seductively, “I could not be with you unless I knew your whole mind was completely with me. So I found your cat.”

Her forehead wrinkled and she looked down at Softpaw at her feet as if he could elucidate Coyote’s suggestion to her. In response, Softpaw caterwauled, “Shut the door! Call the cops!”

“Thank you for bringing back my cat,” she said tersely, shutting the door.

“What about us?” Coyote’s voice resound through wood.

The she-beagle in the other yard begin to bark.

Sarah made sure Coyote could see through the window that she holding up the phone. Softpaw jumped up to the windowsill to determine how incensed Coyote was at him. Coyote curled his lips to show dulled canine teeth. Softpaw put his paws on the glass, hoping this endearing gesture would soften his anger, somehow. Coyote only tapped the glass with a thick fingernail, narrowing his eyes that burned yellow underneath blue lens that made his eyes appear green.

He said, “Next full moon, at midnight, in the woods, we’ll settle this.”

Through the glass, Sarah yelled, “Never come back here!”

Coyote nonchalantly turned on his toes then strode down the stone path. The sound of his strides thinned and finally died. Sarah collapsed on the futon, and Softpaw joined her in her much-missed lap. All at once, as it was with her, she began to cry, but silently this time. Apologetically, Softpaw mewed softly. Guilt was a new emotion he had acquired from his time as a man.

“At work, I’m throwing freaks out of the theaters, and now at home... One of these days I’m really going to use my aiki-do and kill a man by mistake.”

“Don’t cry,” he mewed over and over again, pressing his check to her face, padding his paws on her belly, trying hard to stiffen the anxious flick of his tail. Sarah proved inconsolable for several minutes.

The following morning, she left the house early, without taking her cereal, without leaving its milk. As Softpaw dozed, a feline adage ran inside his head: “Don’t complain too much about the neighbors’ dogs or they will have puppies.” Somehow Softpaw knew dogs had something to do with Sarah’s early departure. Didn’t she say the d-word? He reproved himself for not being a better listener.

Softpaw didn’t hate dogs. The she-beagle was company. With all dogs, he had always been diplomatic, as he was with Coyote, a supernatural canine. True, Coyote was different, and Softpaw really hated him for making Sarah cry. Certainly with a natural, normal dog, he would never allow himself to be bullied. Cats were not defenseless. The cat was as blessed as the dog by The Great Spirit, if not more so. Like all cats, Softpaw had claws that could reach while dogs only had a mouth that was poorly placed too close to their eyes.

But violence, he thought, was for the unsophisticated. The only fight he’d ever gotten into was with a raccoon, and, after a swipe from the raccoon’s claw, Softpaw had retreated, fortunately, not to be chased.

Safe now on his windowsill, he let the morning sun lull him to sleep.

But, as soon as abruptly, Sarah’s calling someone woke him from his nap.

It was noon when Sarah and something with paws walked the stone steps. Softpaw saw the hulk outside their garden studio, so he stood tall at the window. They addressed each other through the glass. Softpaw’s first instinct was to hiss, but he refrained, tamed by his past encounters with dogs that did not initially bark at him. Do unto dogs as you would want them to do unto you.

Softpaw speculated that this rather big dog was nearly thirty in dog years, a German Shepherd and Golden Retriever cross. No need to hiss, he recollected. The larger dogs usually dealt better with cats, and the mongrels tended to be less excitable than pure breeds. This mass of mahogany fur seemed genial.

His wet nose tried in vain to pull Softpaw’s smell through the glass.

“Samson, honey,” Sarah said firmly, getting out her keys, “this is Softpaw. You two will get along fabulously... I hope. He’s your new brother.”

Softpaw mewed once cooly, and the dog barked a low “hello.”

“And Softpaw, this is your new brother Samson. He’s here to watch over our place when I’m not home, amongst his other duties of loyal companion and leftover food disposal.”

Her attitude pleased Softpaw, and Samson the dog, as almost all dogs are, was oblivious to the slight. The door opened. Samson lumbered forward coyly, but his tail wagged arches. His nose sniffed a path. Without delicacy or delay, his mouth soon lapped water from Softpaw’s personal and private bowl.

Sarah simpered at Softpaw glaring at her. “He really is a nice, good dog. The SPCA said he has been an orphan ever since his daddy died a few days ago. We must be kind to our new friend.”

He didn’t murmur a word, just stared at her, his ears pinned firmly back, then he huffed the air. He had to mew: “His smell is taking over the studio!”

“I’ll move your water and food to the kitchen counter.”

He reiterated the immediate olfactory problem more concisely: “Mewmf.”

“And I’ll give him a bath, I promise. Thank you for not hissing.”

Not appeased, he darted off, deciding to hide under the bed until dark.

After he was almost content under the bed, Softpaw thought about how the night of the full moon was forthcoming. This made him totally abject again. What would happen if he did not go meet Coyote? Would he come back here? Could Samson protect him from Coyote? Samson looked pretty strong.

Dogs are ruining my life, he sighed. She has found something slightly less annoying than a man. What if she gets some smelly man on top of having a dog? Softpaw knew how men were with dogs, playing all the time. Men adore dogs. She would disappear with a man and dog all day.

“She’ll never pet me again,” he mewed louder than he’d hoped.

Sarah replied, “Come out from under the bed and play with us.”

Softpaw had to admit to himself that most of this was all his own fault. The only way he could forget about everything was to close his eyes, so he did.

Life was not so terrible with the dog around. At nighttime, Samson slept quietly on the side of the bed where a strange man would sleep. Softpaw still got the crook of Sarah arm. Now, earlier in the morning, the dog was walked, and then chained up in the yard, and Softpaw and Sarah still had their cereal and milk without intrusion.

Samson did watch after Sarah, and after Softpaw, though Softpaw felt he did not need to be watched even with Coyote’s wrath weighing down on him. Sarah would praise Samson for barking at trespassing squirrels and cats, saying, “I should take you to work with me to scare off all the gate crashers there.”

To Sarah, Samson would woof, “Anything for you,” and wag wildly.

Softpaw thought Samson’s response was a bit much.

Now they did not speak much since Samson, as a dog, did not have much of interest to say. There was a “hello” and a “the sun is fun” here and there, and, everyday at dusk, a “when’s she coming home?” Softpaw was a bit flattered that Samson assumed that he, as the feline, knew the ins and outs of Sarah’s schedule.

And Sarah was not the only female who enjoyed Samson’s company.

Samson played with the she-beagle, barking affably through the fence, romping along its length, for the fun of it. Softpaw even found out from Samson that the she-beagle’s name was Maggie.

He was as gullible as he was gregarious. All Softpaw would have to do was stare intensely in a direction and sniff. Soon Samson would concentrate his absolute attention in the same direction. This never ceased to entertain Softpaw. Sometimes Softpaw even thought of himself as an older sibling to this silly dog, someone the dog respected, admired, and would follow with unwavering trust.

But Softpaw did not even want to compete with the dog’s performances whenever Sarah came home. Both Sarah and Softpaw would politely stare at the dog spinning around, getting all bound up in his chain, barking happily, saying, “You’re here! Again! Like yesterday! Amazing! We’ll be together again!”

“Charming,” Softpaw mewed, “but a bit much.”

Samson could be wholly annoying as most dogs. He humped Sarah’s leg. “How pathetic!” Softpaw mewed on these occasions. She laughed but did firmly push the mutt off. Softpaw caterwauled, “what a lecherous, near incestuous act.” The lasciviousness that even this fixed dog could exhibit stunned Softpaw.

But, after one such occasion, a strategy began to form in his imagination. It was desperate plan, a last defense against nefarious Coyote.

The day before the full moon, Softpaw had conceived two thirds of a plan, the beginning and the end. The unknown middle would have to be improvised. This plan would be cruel only to be kind, as he understood plans like this to be. It would begin right after Sarah left for work, when he and canine were outside, alone, when the day was more than half over.

Softpaw followed her as she turned down the stone path to go to work. When she stepped off the stone path, both of them now out of Samson’s sentry, Softpaw waited a few beats of his anxious heart as he watched Sarah stroll away. Then, like a flash, he ran back to the dog at the other end of the gray stone path. After turning the corner, claws scraping stone, he sprinted to the metal spike in the ground to which Samson was chained.

“Start digging!” Softpaw mewed, claws where the spike met the dirt.

The dog started digging, without question. Softpaw then supervised him. Soon the spike was free, and Samson, with chain in tow, followed Softpaw down the stone path, blind with obedience to Softpaw’s urgency. 

They ran like mad. Often Samson outran Softpaw and had to slow down. This amused Softpaw greatly, made him think this plan of his just might work. His plan would work if Softpaw always had the lead, always acted first. 

As they entered the thick woods, Samson slowed down behind Softpaw. The dog must have outrun his blind obedience. “So what’s this running about?” Samson gasped, chain dragging behind him.

“Sarah has been kidnapped.” Softpaw answered, gasping too.

“Who did it?” Samson growled, the maddest Softpaw had ever heard him.

“Coyote, but you can’t let him know we know he did it.”

“Coyote? Why?” Fear had softened his growl.

“Did the beagle tell you about the time I turned into a man?”

“Yes,” said Samson, without shame over the gossipy nature of dogs.

“Well, when he made me a cat again, Coyote saw her and fell in love.”

“This is not good. Coyote is such a trickster.” Samson barked.

Softpaw stopped walking. It would be too risky too go any deeper. They’d be in the realm in which Coyote could materialize if he willed it.

“We have to wait here until the full moon so we can get Sarah back.”

Samson laid down on his stomach to rest, looking a bit like a sphinx, “Okay, but shouldn’t we go now and retrieve her before anything happens?

“No,” answered Softpaw. “He can’t do anything until it is a full moon, when he can take human form. Like a werewolf. Then we’ve got to get him. Didn’t your mother tell you about Coyote?”

“That he’s an embarrassment to dogs, Great Dane to Chihuahua.”

“Sorry.” Then Softpaw decided snuggling up to him would be harmless. Between the dog’s forearms, he settled down. Samson placed his head to a side, so the weight of it wouldn’t disturb Softpaw.

They closed their eyes and drifted resistantly to their shallow slumbers. And, to pass their time without Sarah, they slept the rest of the day and night.

After morning broke, Softpaw let the sleeping dog lie and began his quick journey back to the studio apartment. Just as he assumed, photocopied pictures of him were stapled to every utility pole on their block. Underneath, the words:

Softpaw felt terrible. He could imagine Sarah at home, very alone, crying. He did feel terrible, but he couldn’t help but wonder why he was worth so little. The return of the dog with him should have bumped up the reward even higher.

He skulked down the stone path, around the corner, past the studio door, and sleuthed out Maggie the she-beagle. She was already outside as expected, poking around the plants crawling up her fence, sniffing only The Great Spirit knew what. Softpaw hopped up onto the fence.

“Maggie,” Softpaw whispered.

“Softpaw!” the dog barked.

“Not so loud,” hissed Softpaw.

A little quieter, the dog said, “Your person has been up all night calling all over for you guys. She is worried sick. What are you up to this time?”

“We’re coming back tonight after midnight. Can you get us some of your master’s clothing, some of his baggy stuff that will fit Samson when he’s a man?”

“Oh, no, not this again! I can’t believe Samson would play this game!”

“I tried to stop him,” said Softpaw, as sincerely as he could, “but he loves Sarah and thinks he can make Coyote to do his bidding.”

“Oh, Great Spirit in the Sky, let this go well... will he still romp with me?”

“Yes, he plans to, and throw sticks and balls and Frisbees.”

“Yes, yes, and I can borrow some baggy clothes for him.”

“And some shoes and socks?”

“Oh, yes, something for his soft human feet.”

“Then we will see you later...”

“Okay, okay, okay, see you later. Tonight! Tonight! Tonight!”

Softpaw stole off, body low as if he was ducking under Maggie’s barks.

When Softpaw returned to Samson, he was still asleep. Softpaw snuggled up to his warm side. Samson was a good dog as Sarah had said.

All day, they slept the repose of animals that miss their person.

Almost midnight, they treaded together through darkness to seek Coyote. Samson growled under his breath about what he would do with Coyote once he saw him. Softpaw told him to be prudent, and to attack when he said to attack, so Sarah would not be harmed in the ensuing battle. “Perhaps,” Softpaw said, “we can even avoid a battle if we are diplomatic. Let me do the talking.”

As they went deeper into the woods, the full moon became more obscured by the trees towering above them. Soon the moon disappeared, along with all of the hope Softpaw had that he’d be a clever enough kitten to get them out of this.

At the center of the woods, Softpaw called Coyote by name, and, like age, Coyote allowed himself to be seen. His yellow eyes appeared first then his body, a paler yellow like thick smoke from wet wood. Though Coyote, in his full form, was considerably smaller in size than Samson, Softpaw was still very scared.

“Did you bring a friend, to amend, to bring this to an end?”

Softpaw said. “Since I was unhappy about our earlier miscommunication, I thought a fellow canine could act as a cultural and idiomatic translator of sorts to help us repair things.” Softpaw was amazed on how composed he sounded.

“A dog and cat together, will relinquish never, if their love is forever.”

Softpaw had suspected that real love between a cat and a dog could occur, that bringing together their worlds could be powerful medicine against Coyote. Maggie always argued this when she wanted to play. True, his and Samson’s friendship was nice, but it was just beginning.

“I suppose, dear Coyote, what you say is true. It is the most noble of cats that befriend dogs and the most temperate of dogs that befriend cats. Samson and I do share a strong friendship.”

“But starting it with lies, everything dies, no matter what shape or size.”

“Our love is forever,” announced Softpaw, placing his paw on Samson’s, “and so it must be that you meet us halfway on any deal we wish to suggest.”

“True love is true, but lies can undo... Samson has been lied to.”

Softpaw was speechless. Perhaps Coyote knew everything that Softpaw had said as they entered woods: Coyote’s acute ears overheard lies to Samson. Softpaw turned to Samson, and his heart sank as it took on the weightiness of Samson’s trusting eyes.

Samson asked Softpaw, “What does all this have to do with Sarah?”

“All lies can kill, even a cat on a sunny windowsill.”

Samson’s gaze went from Softpaw and set on Coyote’s.

“Are you calling my friend a liar, you kidnapper?”

“A friend to deceive, a story to unweive, a fight to achieve.”

With brow pinched, Samson turned to Softpaw. Softpaw thought that he might as well come clean with his new pal before Coyote had his revenge. “Sam, I lied to you. Sarah is safe at home. I wanted to trick him into making you a man so you could be Sarah’s. You know she’s lonely sometimes and she loves you... and Coyote’s still angry with me for tricking him before. I thought he wouldn’t be so angry at me if I brought you. Can you forgive me for getting you involed? Forgive me quickly before he does something awful to me.”

Eyes still locked onto Softpaw, Samson growled low. Suddenly, twisting, Samson leapt towards Coyote and passed right through him and hit a tree trunk. Dazed yet dertermined, he leap for Coyote again, but again passed right through.

“Make me a man,” growled Samson before he leap for a third time.

Softpaw, too, found himself trying to pounce on Coyote.

After they passed right through Coyote, only to collide into nearby trees, they discovered that when they both made contact with Coyote at the same time, they struck his spirit. Only then did Coyote feel the real force of them together. Samson and Softpaw chanted madly as they leapt on Coyote: “Make me a man!” and “Make him a man!” Their demands echoed throughout the woods.

In the heat of the fight, Softpaw realized Samson was gradually changing into a man and, as he transformed, they could no longer strike Coyote’s spirit. Very soon, only the eyes of yellow were there in the woods, and they had only enough will to focus on them. The battle that had exhausted them was over.

“I have let you win, and it is not my sin, to let your new life begin.”

The yellow eyes closed and disappeared, and, for a flash, Softpaw thought he saw a toothy yellow smile in the darkness not unlike a fabled supernatural cat he had once heard of, rumored to live in England.

He mewed to Samson, now a naked man, “What did he mean by that?”

After Samson unfastened the collar tightly bound around his human neck, he picked Softpaw up. “All is forgiven, and we get back to Sarah.”

The morning sun, a familiar yellow, found them asleep in the backyard.

Dressed in sandals, jeans, and a t-shirt of Maggie’s master, Samson rested, his damp back on a lawn chair, waiting quietly with Softpaw dosing on his chest. Both were bruised. Samson was cut from his first attempt to pounce on Coyote. Other than that, they both had expressed, as they walked out of the dark woods, that they had never felt better about living in this world.

They both slept, heart to heart, until the sound of Sarah clearing her throat woke them. She stood over them, looking down, looking a little amused.

“Come here, baby,” said Sarah picking up Softpaw off Samson’s chest. Softpaw wondered how soon she would tell Samson she knew aiki-do.

“Hey,” said Samson, rubbing his eyes, a huge smile on his face. Softpaw, looking down at him, worried that his smile might not be appropriate for a man who was about to report what they had agreed to say.

Sarah said cautiously, “You must be cool if my cat will sleep on you.”

“I think,” said Samson, “he loves me now. This address was on his collar. Sure hope I didn’t scare you by falling asleep here, but I’m really tired.”

“It’s okay. Did you see my dog, Samson?”

Samson stood up and looked her in the eyes. He petted Softpaw’s head, and Softpaw purred loudly in Sarah’s arm. “He’s in a much better place.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t survive the fight with... the coyote.”

“Oh, my God,” said Sarah pulling Softpaw closer to her chest.

“I’m really sorry about Samson. He seemed to go peacefully. I took him to the SPCA. I called you from there but you weren’t home and I didn’t want to leave a message on your machine like that. Your phone number was on the tag... I know Samson knew you loved him and he loves you.”

“He was such a sweet dog,” Sarah said, sadness choking her. She burried her face in Softpaw’s fur and ran for the studio door. She clusmily held her cat, found her keys, and opened the door.

In her hurry to bring Softpaw inside, she left the door open for Samson. He timidly followed her to the futon where she sat and held her cat to her face. Softpaw knew that Sarah didn’t cry in front of strangers, only in front of her cat, alone in their home, but he wondered if she would make this time an exception.

Samson stood quitely by. She began to cry inconsolably.

Placing a hand on her turned back, Samson sat down and began the tale: “I heard your dog and cat fighting a coyote. I ran over, tried to separate them, but the battle was over. Samson fought bravely. The coyote escaped.”

She shook her head as if disbelieving, last tears trailing down her face. Minutes passed before she wiped her tears.

She faced the supposed stranger, almost believing. It seemed to Softpaw, it was only the blood seeping through Samson’s shirt that stopped her from asking him a lot of questions.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, getting up, dumping Softpaw out of her lap.

“I thought they’d be clotting by now,” he said looking down at the blood.

“How did this happen?” She gestured to him to sit down on the futon.

“Separating the coyote from the dog.”

“Here I am,” she said walking to bathroom, “not noticing you bleeding, trying not to believe your story... is my cat okay?”

“Yeah, I checked and he seems all right, probably bruised under his fur. Maybe there’s some blood of mine on him from his sleeping on me.”

Sarah came back with her first aid kit. She knelt down, setting the kit on the floor. Softpaw crouched on the top of the futon to watch.

As he pulled off his shirt, Softpaw could begin to smell the change in her. Samson’s chest was a little cut up. Sarah looked into his eyes as she handed him bandaids. She watched as Samson managed to stick several bandaids on himself. His clumsiness made her smile.

“Do you live around here?” She offered her palm for the wrappers.

“Just moved a couple of days ago. Been camping in the woods.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” She placed the wrappers back into first aid kit.

“I guess. Are the animals sleeping there breaking the law?”

Sarah smiled. “So camping there is how you heard the fight?”

“Yeah,” he said, as Softpaw settled on his outstretched legs. 

“My cat really likes you. He normally is really possessive of me.”

“I love animals. I was a dog in another life.”

Sarah smiled again, and Softpaw decided to purr as loud as he could.

“He has never acted this way around men. You really did save him.”

“Yeah, I did,” said Samson, his head leaning back, his eyes closing.

“You must be tired.”

“Yeah.” His eyes finally shut. 

“What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

“That’s strange.”

“Not really,” he replied softly.

“I hate to be rude, but what do you want to do out here in L.A.? Act?”

“I do security work. I’d like to get married, but I can’t have any kids.”

Softpaw saw Sarah’s eyes widen. “You can rest here for a while.”

“That’s good.” Samson said right before he dozed off.

Softpaw saw Sarah’s eyes narrow. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

But Sam was asleep, even with his wounds and a cat purring on his legs.

“I can’t believe I’m letting this guy crash here on my futon.”

“Don’t worry,” Softpaw mewed quietly. “It will okay.”

While keeping an eye on Sam, Sarah changed out of her work clothes into a t-shirt and loose jeans then sat on the floor by the futon. As gently as she could, she petted Softpaw half-asleep on Sam’s legs.

“Wouldn’t it be great,” she whispered to Softpaw, “if this guy got the job opening up at my theater for security guard. Wouldn’t it be great if somehow... since he’s so sweet and handsome... this guy somehow really is Samson.”

Softpaw opened his eyes just a tiny bit, and said, “Finally, finally, finally.” Sarah, of course, only heard purring.